Status: Alive

Status updates may include sarcasm, tears, dark humor, and unexpected gratitude.

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This Is Not Normal Tina

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 22, 2026

⚡ Energy: Empty. Frustrated. Offended by my own body.

💔 Status: Mad. Not sad — mad.

😡 Outlook: Apparently this is part of the deal. I don’t like it.

Today started with a restless night — tossing and turning even with a Trazodone — and then my first Granix shot of this round.

And from there, it just went downhill.

As the day went on, my energy drained more and more, and for some reason that really pissed me off today. I know by now that the week after chemo is usually a hard one for me, but today I was not in an accepting mood.

I am angry at how much cancer has taken from me.

It took my breasts.
It took my ability to work right now.
And today, it took even the small things — the things I actually enjoy doing around the house.

I emptied the dishwasher.
Did my shot.
Made myself breakfast.

And that was it. Done. Tanks empty.

I felt like an invalid — and that word makes my skin crawl. This is not normal Tina. She does not give up. She does not let things beat her. She does not need a recovery period after unloading a dishwasher.

But today? I did.

I spent most of the day snoozing in my chair with Gidget on my lap, only getting up to pee or find a snack. That’s it. That was the whole highlight reel.

At some point it hit me that I haven’t done laundry in at least a week. I’ve got three or four loads piled up… and absolutely no will to do them.

Anyone who knows me knows I don’t ask for help. I’m usually the helper. The fixer. The one who shows up.

This whole experience has been a steep and uncomfortable learning curve.

And apparently my oncologist was right when she told me that each round would make me more tired than the one before. I can’t wait for round four — I probably won’t even be able to roll myself out of bed by then.

Something to look forward to.

Today wasn’t brave.
It wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t inspiring.

It was real. And I’m pissed about it.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Steroid Math, Medical Denial, and Hot Pink #12

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 21, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low. Confused. Surprisingly amused.

💔 Status: Chemo brain is running the show today.

😑 Outlook: When in doubt, choose hot pink.

I finally figured out why I didn’t have a full-blown wakey, wakey cycle this round.

Turns out…
I can’t read.

I was supposed to take two steroid tablets in the morning and two in the evening, but I misread the label and only took one each time.

Well. Shit.

Is it too late to go back and take the ones I missed?
Probably.
Should I call someone and ask?
Also probably.

But here’s the thing — I’m supposed to start the Granix shots tomorrow, and I’m fairly certain I’m not supposed to be stacking steroids and Granix like some kind of experimental cocktail.

So instead of dealing with that today, I decided to absolutely not deal with it today.

Tomorrow Tina can handle it.
Today Tina is tired.

Thankfully, Casey stepped in with a much better plan: a manicure. Because my nails are now so brittle and dry that one of them split straight down the middle, and that was going to be my final straw.

Let me just say how much I love my nail lady, Sue. She worked her magic and saved the nail. Crisis averted.

And because my brain is currently bad at decisions, I let Casey choose the color.

Sue and I both laughed when he immediately picked hot pink — #12.
The same color I use every summer.
The same color that apparently lives rent-free in his brain.

Honestly? Perfect choice.

Today wasn’t about productivity.
Or problem-solving.
Or correct medication math.

It was about letting one problem wait, fixing one small thing, and ending the day with nails that make me smile every time I look down.

I’ll take that win.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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A Fill, a Fight, and Fashion by Aunt Dee

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 20, 2026

⚡ Energy: Borrowed. Reallocated. Definitely overdrawn.

💔 Status: Tired in the bones but stacking small wins.

😐 Outlook: One more round done. Still moving forward.

Yesterday was… a lot.

We started with my plastics appointment, and I walked in cautiously optimistic. Turns out, they were really impressed with how well my hole is filling in. Even on chemo. Even after all the drama.

And because of that?

I got a fill. 🎉
Only 40cc instead of the usual 50cc — but listen, a win is a win, and I will absolutely take it.

From there it was straight into chemo in the afternoon. Round done. Juice delivered. Chair claimed. The whole familiar routine. Chemo itself went fine, but by the end of the day, I was absolutely wrung out. The kind of tired that lives behind your eyes and settles into your bones.

Still, we rallied.

Because it was Taco Tuesday, and we met up with a few friends for dinner. And just when I thought the day couldn’t hold one more thing, Aunt Dee showed up with two new crocheted hats she made for me.

One looks like a turban.
The other is made of granny squares.

Both are amazing.

I was already wearing my chemo head wrap, so instead of doing a wardrobe change at the table like a lunatic, Casey stepped in and modeled the hats for us. Because of course he did. No hesitation. Full commitment. Taco in one hand, crochet hat on his head.

Honestly? Iconic.

Between the fill, the chemo, the tacos, the laughter, and the hats, it was a full day — emotionally and physically. Today I feel it. I’m run down. Slower. Moving carefully.

But I also stacked a win.
And showed up.
And got through another round.

That counts.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Wig Day at the Salon (Featuring My Dad)

🌼 Date: Monday, January 19, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low effort, high amusement.

💕 Status: Cancer-adjacent, but mostly just laughing.

🙃Outlook: Turns out wigs are a family affair now.

Today my mom brought over a couple of wigs she purchased after we had the head-shaving party. Her request was simple:
“Can you trim these up and make them presentable?”

Sure. Why not. Add wig stylist to the résumé.

First up was the brown wig.

She put it on… and I laughed out loud. Immediately. No filter. Just a full, honest, “Yeah, no.”

That color might’ve worked when she was in high school, but right now? Hard pass. Sorry, Mom. Time moves on. Faces change. Lighting is less forgiving.

So instead, my dad put it on.

And shockingly… it worked.
At least color-wise.

And yet… here we are.

Cancer brings a lot of heavy moments.

But every once in a while, it hands you something ridiculous instead.

Today was ridiculous in the best way.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Dinner, a Dance, and the Magic of Not Being in Charge

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 18, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low-key. Couch-based. Observational.

💗 Status: Tired body, very full heart.

🥰 Outlook: Turns out rest pairs nicely with being taken care of.

Sunday was a quiet day. Low energy, low expectations, no big plans — exactly what my body needed.

So, my youngest, Nicholas, and his girlfriend Lily decided they would cook dinner for us.

And let me tell you… I thoroughly enjoyed the show.

Lily took the reins like a pro, and Nicholas? He did everything she asked. Chopping, stirring, fetching, adjusting — yes ma’am, no hesitation.

Which begs the obvious question:
How come he doesn’t listen to mom and dad like that?

But here’s the part they didn’t realize.

Because of the way our family room and kitchen are set up — one big great room situation — I can see the reflection of the kitchen in the TV. Which meant I had a front-row seat to the whole thing without being obvious about it.

From my recliner.

In my silky pajamas.

Like a professional creep.

I watched them move around each other, doing this little unspoken dance — passing utensils, stepping aside, laughing, working together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was really sweet. The kind of sweet you don’t interrupt or comment on in the moment. You just sit there quietly and let it be what it is.

Dinner, by the way, was delicious.
But the best part wasn’t the food.

It was watching my kid grow into someone who shows up, helps, listens, and shares a kitchen with someone he clearly cares about.

Low energy day.
High return.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Refilled by Familiar Faces

🌼 Date: Friday, January 16, 2026

⚡ Energy: Running on fumes… until I wasn’t.

💖 Status: Heart a little bruised but no longer empty.

🌞 Outlook: Turns out love is an excellent fuel source.

Today I stopped by work.

Just for a visit.
Just to see some faces.
Just to remind myself that part of my life still exists exactly where I left it.

And wow.

The hugs.
The smiles.
The you’re-here! energy.

It was like walking into a warm room after being out in the cold too long. Every hug, every laugh, every “it’s so good to see you” poured a little something back into a tank that’s been running dangerously low.

Then I stood outside — in the sunshine and a full-on blustery windstorm — and waved my drivers out as they headed off for their afternoon routes.

And that part?
That got me.

Seeing their faces. Watching them pull away. Feeling their appreciation and love so clearly, even without words. That simple, familiar ritual reminded me how much I’ve missed my work family — and how much they’ve missed me.

It’s one thing to know you matter.
It’s another thing to feel it.

Today I felt wanted.
I felt missed.
I felt like myself again, if only for a little while.

I didn’t do anything extraordinary. I didn’t fix anything or solve anything or push through anything hard. I just showed up — and that was enough.

Some days don’t refill you with rest.
Some days refill you with people.

Today overflowed.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Cancer, Grief, and a Hard No

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 15, 2026

⚡ Energy: Empty tank. Sharp edges.

💔 Status: Heartbroken, irritated, and deeply unimpressed with humanity.

😠 Outlook: Still standing. Still not getting played.

Today took what little energy I had and asked for more.

I spent part of the day messaging the man about meeting this weekend so Gidget could meet Lola. I was excited. Hopeful. Letting myself imagine something good after a hard stretch.

And then the red flags started waving.

He told me he needed $150 before we met — for “ownership paperwork.”

Funny, because the Facebook ad said the puppy was free.
Also funny, because we’ve never had “ownership paperwork” for any of our other pets. Ever.

I explained that we had just paid $550 to have Momo privately cremated so we could bring his ashes home. I reminded him I’m not working right now and I’m actively going through chemo. Things are tight.

He didn’t care.

When I told him I wasn’t comfortable sending money ahead of time, he asked what I could afford. I said honestly: $20–$25.

He then demanded I send that.

I told him no — we do cash on delivery only. We’ve been burned before. I said he could email the paperwork if it mattered so much.

That was “not an option.”

So, I told him the truth: the whole thing wasn’t sitting right with me. That he didn’t get to bully me. That my terms were cash on delivery, no paperwork required, and the deal was still contingent on whether Gidget even liked Lola.

If he didn’t like those terms, then I was sorry — it wasn’t meant to be.

He called me selfish.
Said he “really wanted me to have the dog.”

That’s when I was done.

After that? Radio silence.

Casey said it perfectly: if the ad had been upfront about the $150, we probably would’ve paid it without issue. But advertising a puppy as free and springing a fee at the last minute — that’s the problem. That, and refusing cash.

Sketchy.

I Googled him and found out he’s a dog breeder, which raised even more questions. Was there ever an aunt? Does she even have cancer? If not, I hope karma finds him quickly, because cancer is not a word you get to toss around for sympathy or money.

It’s not a storyline.
It’s not leverage.
It’s real life.

I’m busy kicking cancer’s ass right now. If he thought I couldn’t also take on a dog-breeding scam artist on a low-energy Thursday, he was wrong.

Watch me.

It’s sad there are people willing to take advantage of others — especially when they’re vulnerable. And the worst part is knowing some people probably did send him money and lost it.

So today I fought cancer.
And grief.
And a scam.

Not bad for a Thursday with zero gas in the tank.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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When the Universe Whispers “Maybe”

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 14, 2026

⚡ Energy: Quietly hopeful.

💔 Status: Grief still present — but something new might be forming.

🤗 Outlook: Two good things on the horizon goes a long way.

Today brought something unexpected — the kind of moment that makes you stop and wonder if the universe is nudging you instead of shouting.

We came across a post on Facebook from a man whose aunt has cancer. She’s no longer able to care for her Yorkie puppy and asked him to help find her a new home.

The puppy’s name is Lola.
She’s 12 weeks old.

I sent him a private message and shared that I’m also battling cancer right now. And I told him something else — that my red, spicy wig is named Lolita, Lola for short, courtesy of my husband.

Coincidence?
Maybe.

But it sure made me pause.

I asked where he was located, and when he replied Eugene, my eyebrows went up. That’s only about two and a half hours from us. Not across the state. Not impossible. Just… doable.

We talked more and decided to meet halfway. We found a park in Keizer, where Gidget and Lola can meet and see how they do together. If Gidge gives her approval? Then it’s a go.

No pressure.
No rushing.
Just seeing what feels right.

Suddenly, I have something to look forward to this weekend — something light, something hopeful, something that isn’t about appointments or wounds or waiting.

And then there’s Friday.

I’m planning to stop by work during the drivers’ midday and wave them out as they head off on their afternoon routes. I miss that more than I realized. The people. The routine. The simple act of showing up and being seen.

So now I have two good things ahead of me.

Sometimes excitement doesn’t show up loud and flashy. Sometimes it tiptoes in and says, hey… maybe this is something.

And for today, maybe is enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Measured, Modified, and Missing a Little Dog

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 13, 2026

⚡ Energy: Steady, thoughtful, and a little emotionally bruised.

💗 Status: Progress happening — even when it doesn’t feel like it.

😑 Outlook: Long road. Still walking.

Today was physical therapy day.

They measured my range of motion, and honestly? I was surprised. Even with ripped stitches, a gaping hole, and me babying my right side more than I’d like to admit, my mobility has still improved.

That felt like a small win.

Then she measured my left arm — the one where they took the lymph nodes — and the swelling has gone down an entire inch in some places. Which is wild, because I didn’t even realize it was swollen, let alone noticeably bigger than the right arm.

Apparently, my body has been doing things without consulting me again.

Now I have homework. New stretches. Modified versions for the right side until the infamous hole decides to finish filling itself in. I don’t think my physical therapist loved hearing that her stretches were directly involved in my stitches ripping out… but here we are. We adapt. We keep moving.

Her goal is to get me nice and limber on both sides before radiation starts the second week of April.

Ah yes. Radiation. The next chapter.

Between now and then, I’m also hoping the hole fully closes so I can resume saline fills in my expander bags. Ironically, right before radiation starts, one expander will actually need to be deflated so it doesn’t interfere with the radiation beam.

I talked to the plastics nurse yesterday and requested that when that time comes, they deflate both sides — because I am absolutely not walking around for weeks with only one boob. Hard pass.

How long they stay deflated depends on healing, burns, and skin recovery. And once radiation is done, the radiated side has to heal for at least six months before reconstruction surgery is even on the table.

It’s a long road.
Like… really long.

Lord, give me patience and strength for the long haul. 🙏

And then, because life doesn’t like to stay on one topic for too long, Casey dropped a gentle bomb this afternoon.

And honestly? I think he’s right.

No rush. No impulse decisions. Just the right fit.

Today was about progress you don’t always feel, grief that still lingers, and making space for what comes next — slowly, thoughtfully, and with love.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Good Healing, Hard Goodbye

🌼 Date: Monday, January 12, 2026

⚡ Energy: Emotionally wrung out. Physically tired. Still here.

💔 Status: Good news from my body. Devastating news from my heart.

😭 Outlook: Grateful for progress. Grieving a very loved little soul.

Today came with both good news and bad news — the kind of day where you hold two truths at the same time and neither cancels the other out.

The good news first.

I had my plastics appointment today, and we compared my pictures from a couple weeks ago — before they put the stitches in — to the picture taken today after the remaining stitches I ripped out last week were removed.

What a difference.

Even being on chemo, knowing it slows healing, my wound has come a long way in a short amount of time. The bottom of the hole is almost even with the surface skin now. The top is maybe a millimeter deep, if that. And the hole itself is smaller around than it was when I started chemo a month ago.

That matters.

It tells me my body is still working. Still responding. Still trying. And it confirms that negotiating with my oncologist and moving forward with chemo as scheduled was the right call for me.

I needed that reassurance today.

When Casey got home, Momo wasn’t acting like himself. He couldn’t stand on his back legs. He couldn’t hold up his head. We knew things had been changing — the last few days he wasn’t finishing his meals and wasn’t drinking much water — but seeing him unable to support his tiny six pounds told us what we didn’t want to admit yet.

It was time.

Casey picked him up and held him against his chest, and we just loved on him — whispered to him, kissed him, told him how good he was — as he passed peacefully in Casey’s arms.

We cried like babies.

One of the hardest parts of loving pets is that they become family. Children, really. And letting them go never gets easier, no matter how many times you’ve had to do it.

Casey took Momo to our vet, and they confirmed what we already knew — he had crossed the rainbow bridge.

Momo is now in heaven, reunited with his brothers Buster and JJ, and with our son Bryan. I find comfort knowing he didn’t go alone, that he had a welcoming party waiting for him.

Today reminded me that healing and loss can exist side by side.
That progress doesn’t protect you from grief.
And that love — real love — always leaves a mark.

Rest easy, little fertigator. You are so very loved.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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$30, Ten Hours of Sleep, and a Damn Good Day

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 11, 2026

⚡ Energy: Rested. Giddy. Mildly feral in the best way.

💔 Status: Post-Trazodone bliss and back in my body.

🌞 Outlook: Turns out “normal” can feel like a miracle.

Last night I took a Trazodone and slept for ten full hours.

TEN.
Not chemo sleep.
Not half-awake, weird-dream, tossing-and-turning sleep.
Actual, deep, delicious, don’t-talk-to-me-I’m-healing sleep.

Pure. Heaven.

When I woke up, I did what any responsible adult does: checked my socials. And there it was — an ad on Facebook Marketplace for the Dr. Marten loafers that Santa apparently forgot to load into the sleigh.

They’re still sitting in my Amazon cart, mocking me, having dropped from $150 to $110.

But this listing?

Worn once.
Look brand new.
Thirty dollars.

Acca-excuse me?

I may have squealed. Loudly.
Then I asked Casey if he was up for a road trip since we had absolutely nothing else planned.

He was in.

I messaged the seller, we set a time, and suddenly we had a plan — the best kind. The accidental kind.

We grabbed my friend, hit the bank for cash, stopped at McDonald’s for fries and a Sprite (for hydration and change), then made the 35-minute trek to the other side of the river to collect my very late, very perfect Christmas present.

Shoes acquired.
Joy secured.

After that?
Grocery store.
Click List pickup.
Home.

That was it.
No drama.
No appointments.
No chaos.

Just a normal day — and damn, it felt good.

I don’t need every day to be big.
I just need days like this sprinkled in to remind me that life still knows how to behave.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Pajamas, Brunch, and the Good Kind of Tired

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 10, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low battery, full heart.

💔 Status: End of week two post-chemo tired — the real, heavy kind.

🌞 Outlook: Worth it.

Today was a family day — the kind that doesn’t look flashy but settles into your bones in a good way.

On my mom’s side of the family, we stopped trying to force everything into December. Everyone’s families have grown, everyone’s got multiple places to be, and the pressure was getting ridiculous. So, Aunt Cathy — my mom’s oldest sister — made the executive decision to move our get-together to January.

Honestly? Genius.

But it was good tired.

The kind that comes from being surrounded by family all day. From sitting, eating, talking, and just being without needing to explain anything. The kind of tired that feels earned, not stolen.

Today deserves to be remembered — even if tomorrow I’m paying for it with an early bedtime and zero ambition.

Some days don’t need a lesson or a punchline.
Some days are just… good.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Unsupervised, Unstitched, and Wigless in Public

🌼 Date: Friday, January 9, 2026

⚡ Energy: Determined. Unsupervised. Mildly unhinged.

💔 Status: Stitches ripped out. Dignity questionable. Adaptability undefeated.

🌞 Outlook: Calling plastics, wearing a pink wig, and laughing anyway.

Yesterday ended with a plot twist no one asked for.

After a day that included Christmas tree takedown, vacuuming, sweeping, and a full-scale dog shit hazmat operation, I went to change my bandage and—surprise—my stitches had torn out.

Again.

Back to the gaping hole club. Membership renewed.
I’ll be calling the plastics hotline this morning to see if they want me in today or if Monday is soon enough. (Spoiler: I already know the answer is “send a picture.”)

And friends… that’s where things got stupid.

Casey wasn’t home.
Which meant I had to take the picture.

Picture me alone, unsupervised, trying to:

• remove my own bandage (usually Casey’s department),
• hold up my compression tank top that I cannot take off by myself,
• balance my phone,
• and somehow photograph my own boob.

This was never going to end well.

Plan A failed immediately.
Plan B involved me going back to the kitchen and grabbing:

• the stick-on grip-it thing Santa put in my stocking,
• and the remote for the handheld selfie grip doo-hickey Santa also brought me
  (because obviously if you’re blogging through chemo, you need equipment).

Back in the bathroom, I stuck my phone to the full-length mirror on the back of the door, pulled my tank top up with one hand (which was also holding the remote), lifted the bandage with the other, and tried to angle my boob into the frame like this was a totally normal activity.

Just as I went to take the picture, the phone started sliding down the mirror.

So, what did I do?

I crouched down to follow it.

I managed to:

• descend at the same speed as the falling phone,
• keep the tank top and bandage lifted,
• and snap multiple usable photos on the way down.

I was honestly impressed with myself.
The coordination.
The problem-solving.
The commitment.

So yes. You can now officially add Medical Boob Photographer to my ever-evolving résumé.

And because this day clearly wasn’t done with me yet, let’s talk about Candy.

Candy is my pink wig.
Named after the song Sex & Candy.
She was supposed to make her public debut at dinner.

What Candy did instead was attempt an escape.

Her hair is apparently so slippery that the hat I wore over her slid clean off my head the second I sat down at the table. And with the hat went the decorative bobby pins that had been bravely holding her untrimmed, wildly overgrown bangs out of my face.

So there I was.
In the middle of a restaurant.
Wig sliding.
Hat falling.
Pins abandoning ship.

And I did what any reasonable person would do.

I took her off. Right there.

Candy did not get dinner pictures.
Candy spent the rest of the evening in time out on the chair next to me while I finished my meal as myself, bald, unbothered, and slightly amused by the attention.

Once her bangs are trimmed and she learns how to behave in public, I’ll take her out for another spin. And yes — there will be pictures.

Tonight just wasn’t her night.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Fertigation, But Make It Personal

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 8, 2026

⚡ Energy: Grateful, slightly stunned, and then immediately assaulted by dog poop.

💔 Status: Apparently people are reading this… and my blind puppy chose violence.

🌞 Outlook: Thankful for humans. Concerned about puppies. Still standing.

Before I tell you about how my morning turned into a full-blown biohazard situation, I need to stop and say this:

In one month — since December 8 — this little corner of the internet has had 400 viewers and 1,271 views.

That’s… a lot.
Especially considering my entire “marketing strategy” has been:
post the link on Facebook and Instagram and hope for the best.

So, if you’re here?
Reading.
Coming back.
Lurking quietly.
Sharing with a friend.
Or hate-reading with concern?

That’s on you. And I see you.

This space exists because people keep showing up — not for polished inspiration, but for honesty, dark humor, and whatever the hell this is. Thank you for making it worth sitting down and typing on the hard days.

Okay. Gratitude moment complete.
Now let me tell you about Momo.

My normal morning routine is simple: let the dogs out, take my temperature, take my meds, make breakfast.

Not today.

Today was a learning day.
Not a cancer learning day.
Not a chemo learning day.
A life hands you a blind puppy and says “figure it out” kind of day.

Enter Momo.
He’s 12.
He’s blind.
He’s a puppy. (All dogs are puppies. Age is fake.)

As I walked over to Momo’s kennel — newly placed under the windows — I was greeted by what can only be described as a Category 5 Shit Event.

Let me set the scene properly…

You know those big ol’ fields on road trips with the sprinkler systems on giant wheels that crawl across the land like agricultural centipedes? That’s called Lateral Move Irrigation. Sometimes the water spraying out is brown instead of clear.

That’s not water.
That’s fertilizer.
Specifically: liquid manure.

That process is called Fertigation.

Friends… Momo has mastered fertigation.

There was shit in his dog bed.
On his water dish.
On the dog gate.
All over the pee pads.
And, naturally, on his feet, because he had stomped through it like he was crushing grapes for wine.

A wine I do not recommend.
Pretty sure it would be… shitty.

Before I could do anything for myself, I scooped him up and put him on his outside tether. (Because blind puppy + freedom = lost puppy.) Then began the hazmat protocol.

Chemo rule #47: do not touch pet feces.
So, I gloved up like I was about to perform surgery in a war zone.

Smell is a big trigger right now, so I masked up too — and still managed to throw up in my mouth and sprint to the kitchen sink. Which meant… yes… now the sink needed scrubbing.

After that:
• dog bath
• bed into the washer
• pee pads washed
• water bowl through the dishwasher

And when I finally looked up?

Momo was stretched out on the couch.
Clean.
Relaxed.
Thriving.

Watching me do all the heavy lifting like a king who just survived a hostile takeover.

It’s a good thing I love the little shit.
(See what I did there?)

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

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Paperwork, Puppies, and Pulling Down Christmas

🌼 Date: Wednesday, January 07, 2026

⚡ Energy: Depleted, overachieving, stubborn.

💞 Status: Still alive. Slightly dizzy. Very accomplished.

😪 Outlook: The hard work is done — tomorrow is a problem for tomorrow.

Today was one of those days where nothing dramatic happened, but somehow everything was exhausting.

Phone calls.
Emails.
Clarifying paperwork that should not need clarifying.
Union stepping in (thank God).
Another call to my doctor because the date on my updated FMLA paperwork was wrong — because of course it was.

The biggest irony of the day?
I can’t use the sick bank right now because I currently have long-term disability (even though I did NOT sign up for it this year) — even though the sick bank exists for moments exactly like this. Make it make sense. (It doesn’t.)

This is the part of cancer people don’t talk about much. Not the chemo. Not the baldness. Not even the fatigue — but the administrative Olympics that happen behind the scenes while you’re just trying to survive the day without crying or throwing your phone.

And then… there was Momo.

Last night, Momo once again escaped his playpen area. This time, he jumped over the armrest of the couch like a tiny, determined ninja and made his way straight to our bedroom door, scratching and barking as if he had been personally abandoned.

Important context:
Momo is blind.
He is diabetic.
And he is on a very strict schedule.

He eats twice a day, as close to 12 hours apart as possible, and must finish eating within a 30-minute window so we can give him his insulin shot. No treats outside that window. No free roaming — because blind dogs + carpets = chaos.

So we had carefully engineered a setup around the couch: a play yard gate, his puppy ramp, water bowl, and an entire floor lined with washable pee pads. It was comfortable. It was safe. It was apparently not enough.

Which means… the couch had to go.

Sorry, Momo. You’re back to a dog bed like a regular dog.

Whoever said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks has clearly never met a 12-year-old blind boy with diabetes and an agenda.

Once the couch was out of the equation, everything snowballed — because of course it did.

The Christmas tree had to come down to make room for the kennel under the windows.
Once the tree was down, I had to sweep under it.
Once I swept under it, I couldn’t in good conscience sweep only part of the house.
So, the entire house got swept.

Then the pee pads had to be picked up and washed.
Which meant the rug under them had to be vacuumed and washed.
And once one rug was done… well, you already know — the whole house got vacuumed.

Then all the blankets Momo had been sleeping on had to be washed so they were people-safe again.

By the time I finished everything, I was wiped out.

I checked my oxygen — a solid 97%.
But my heart rate? 125 beats per minute.

I’ve always run a little fast (usually in the 90s), and my blood pressure has been low at recent appointments, which probably explains why I felt lightheaded after doing way too much today.

But the work is done.
The house is reset.
Momo is secure.

Tomorrow?
We’ll see if I can get out of bed.

Today I fought bureaucracy, cancer fatigue, and a blind diabetic escape artist — and somehow still swept and vacuumed the house. One badass, slightly unhinged day at a time.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

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Pink Hats & Stacey in the Wild

🌼 Date: Tuesday, January 06, 2026

⚡ Energy: Tender, playful, cautiously confident

💖 Status: Still standing (and accessorized)

🥰 Outlook: Finding joy where I can—and wearing it proudly

Today was about softness.
Not the kind that gives up—but the kind that comforts.

They’re warm.
They’re bold.
They’re love—stitched loop by loop.

And then… there was Stacey.

And before anyone makes it weird — Nicholas named her, not me.
Yes, that Stacey. As in “Stacey’s mom has got it going on.”

To be clear:

• He was referring to the wig
• The song popped into his head
• He immediately laughed
• I immediately claimed the name

No Oedipal undertones. No therapy needed. Just a teenage boy with a dumb song stuck in his head and a mom who now owns a blonde wig with a personality.

Stacey, the wig, took it as a compliment.

Last night marked a milestone: my first time wearing a wig out in the wild. Casey got to choose (because apparently, I trust his judgment more than my own), and despite his lifelong declaration that he “doesn’t like blondes,” he confidently picked Stacey.

Reader, I married the right man.

Stacey did great.
It was windy. Very windy.

Turns out long hair + lip gloss = an unexpected bonding experience. I spent a solid portion of the evening peeling blonde strands off my face like decorative tinsel, but honestly? Worth it.

What surprised me most wasn’t how I looked—it was how normal it felt. Not “before cancer” normal, but new-normal, still-me normal. The kind where I can laugh, adapt, and keep moving forward with a little help from yarn, humor, and a blonde alter ego.

Between pink hats made with love and a wig with personality, today reminded me of something important:

I may be losing hair, strength, and predictability—but I am not losing myself.

And if the choice is between crying or accessorizing…

I’ll take accessorizing every time.

Some days call for grit.
Some days call for hot pink and a wig named Stacey.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Pre-Baby Bladder Sleep and Other Miracles

🌼 Date: Monday, January 05, 2026

⚡ Energy: Cautiously optimistic (with good sleep swagger)

❤️‍🩹 Status: Rested, stitched, still healing

😴 Outlook: One miracle at a time — todays was sleep

I woke up at 1:15 a.m. to pee.
Which, historically, is how my body likes to trick me into thinking the day has officially begun.

My brain immediately jumped into “since you’re already up…” mode:
Unload the dishwasher.
Start another load of laundry.
Scroll the internet into oblivion.
Solve world problems.

Hard pass.

This time, I refused to settle for four crappy hours of sleep, so I tried one of the new meds my oncologist gave me — Trazodone, which she specifically told me to save until after round two of chemo.

Friends…
✨ EIGHT. GLORIOUS. UNINTERRUPTED. HOURS. ✨
I slept until 9:30 a.m.
No bathroom trips.
No tossing.
No turning.
No existential dread.

I haven’t slept like that since before kids — and my oldest is 33. That was pre-baby bladder, pre-mom brain, pre-everything. A full-blown medical miracle. And no, before you ask, I did not wet the bed. 😉

The hope is that this new setup won’t rip off the fragile new skin that’s been forming every 24 hours — which looks like pus to me but apparently is actually healing tissue. Medical science is wild.

Today was also a reminder that cancer doesn’t just live in your body.
It lives in paperwork, phone calls, systems, and logistics that don’t slow down just because you’re sick. I’m painfully aware that I am not doing this alone — I have Casey, I have support, I have people who can step in when I don’t have the strength to fight another fight.

And I think often about the people who don’t have that — and how impossibly heavy this journey must feel without someone in your corner.

Today wasn’t flashy, but it was restorative. Sleep helped. Stitches held. Support showed up. And for now, that’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

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Victory Pajamas and Window Decals

🌼 Date: Sunday, January 4, 2026

⚡ Energy: Triumphant but tender

❤️‍🩹 Status: Sore, tired, victorious

🥶 Outlook: Cold outside, warm inside, finally caught up

Ha! WordPress: conquered.

This mission technically started Friday night and didn’t officially end until this morning. Two days of wrestling with menus, ghost pages, slugs from hell, and enough “why won’t you just WORK?” moments to qualify as an endurance sport. But friends… the site now does exactly what I envisioned.

Who knew that at the wise-ass age of 54, I’d be learning how to build a whole damn website? I genuinely thought this was supposed to be click-and-fill. Like the digital version of Mad Libs.
(Yes, I know. I just dated myself. Again.)

As part of my victory tour, I posted my celebration pajamas on social media. Okay fine — they were technically my New Year’s Eve pajamas — but victory pajamas don’t expire. Rules are flexible when you win a war against technology.

Then, because apparently, I like to stack accomplishments, Casey and I installed five of my very first pieces of blog merch:
“Badass Breast Cancer” window decals.
On actual vehicles. In the wild. Rolling down the road.

Shoutout to My Mary 💖 — and yes, this is a proud mom moment for me, because I still can’t believe this thing in my head is now stuck to glass in the real world.

After freezing my freshly bald head and my not-just-boob-weight-lost body (almost 25 pounds down, and trust me, that changes your internal thermostat), I came back inside, thawed out, and did something that felt just as victorious:

I got caught up on three days of blog posts.
Which brings us here. Fully caught up. No backlog. No guilt.

Bonus win: today was day five and FINAL day of the Granix shots. 🎉
The bone pain isn’t quite as brutal as yesterday, but I’ve definitely noticed a pattern — evenings and bedtime are when my knees and legs start screaming, and that’s when the ice packs come out like clockwork. Still, knowing this was the last shot makes it all feel more manageable.

Also, my abdomen is officially starting to resemble a Dalmatian — bruises instead of spots — but honestly? I’ll take it.

I didn’t just survive this week — I finished it. Website fixed. Merch launched. Shots completed. Blog caught up. Still standing. One badass day at a time.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

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When Strength Looks Like Asking for Help

🌼 Date: Saturday, January 03, 2026

⚡ Energy: Heavy, humbled, honest

💕 Status: Upright with help. Grateful for it.

😒 Outlook: Learning the difference between resting and surrendering.

Today’s Lesson: Fatigue

Today’s lesson was all about fatigue — not the cute, “I’m tired, I need a nap” kind, but the bone-deep, strength-stealing kind that rewrites what your body can do without asking permission first.

After my second round of chemo, I messaged my oncologist to let her know that this round is hitting me much harder than round one ever did.

I know from watching my son go through this that each round can hit harder than the last. And if round two is already kicking my ass this badly, rounds three and four may very well have me parked in bed.

Right now, I have zero strength.

Casey has to help me put my chair down.
Sometimes he has to help me stand up just to get out of the chair.
I can’t open jars.
Or Gatorade bottles.
Or boxes of crackers.

I feel like such a weakling — even though I know I’m not.

Thank God for my Hercules, who steps in without hesitation and does all the things I physically can’t right now. And to the warriors who walk this road alone? You have my deepest respect. Truly. I cannot imagine doing this without someone beside me.

My oncologist’s response was honest and measured:

“Fatigue usually gets worse, but other side effects can vary, and sometimes other cycles can be better.”

Which, of course, also means… sometimes not.
If fatigue truly does get worse, I worry about what that looks like. I’ve already lived the version where a bedside commode becomes necessary because getting to the bathroom is too much. I hope I don’t end up bedbound — but if I do, I guess at least I can still type. Hopefully.

As if my body wasn’t already teaching enough lessons, I also spent the entire day wrestling with WordPress, trying to find a hidden glitch that was breaking my brand-new Daily Posts page.

It was a full-on mud wrestling match — except there was no one to tag in.

I walked away.
Ate a snack.
Got a drink.
Came back.
Repeat.

I went to bed without solving it — which is deeply un-Tina-like — but also… necessary.

Because today wasn’t about winning.
It was about knowing when to stop pushing and start listening.

Today taught me that strength doesn’t always look like doing more.
Sometimes it looks like admitting what you can’t do — and letting love step in where muscle fails.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

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Ice Packs and Hour-by-Hour Living ⭐

🌼 Date: Friday, January 02, 2026

⚡ Energy: Low, sore, inward

❤️‍🩹 Status: Managing. Not gracefully, but effectively.

😔 Outlook: One hour at a time, ice packs prioritized.

Today Was Not a Great Day

Today was day three of the Granix shots, and it hit hard.

Severe bone pain — the kind that makes your body feel too heavy to carry itself. My knees and ankles took the worst of it. Standing made everything louder. Moving felt optional. Existing required planning.

I spent most of the day rotating between ice packs and the heating pad, camped out like it was my full-time job. For the record: I think ice is winning. Numbing the pain might be the trick here. Heat feels comforting, but ice feels effective — and today I needed effective.

I’ve already taken the maximum dose of Tylenol for a 24-hour period, so now the plan is simple:
survive until I can sleep… and then sleep until I can take more.

After my legendary 59-hour wakey-wakey spree, I’m now averaging about 5–7 hours of sleep a night. Each night seems to be about an hour shorter than the last, like my body is counting down to the next shot and getting impatient.

I’m supposed to give myself the Granix shot every 24 hours.
Confession time: I’ve been cheating and doing closer to 22 hours.

When the shakes and bone pain ramp up, waiting feels impossible.

Which is the cruel irony of all this — the shot is what causes the bone pain in the first place, but it’s also the thing that makes the shaking and pain calm down afterward. The growth factor tells my bone marrow to wake up and work harder, which is great for my white blood cells… and absolutely miserable for my skeleton.

At this point, I’ll take temporary relief without complaint.

I’ve also been taking extra Pepcid along with my nausea meds. Pepcid is a histamine blocker, and while it’s not a pain medication, it can help in situations like this because histamine plays a role in inflammation. Less histamine = less inflammatory signaling = slightly quieter pain. It’s not a miracle, but when your knees are screaming, even a small volume reduction matters.

Today wasn’t productive.
It wasn’t inspiring.
It wasn’t brave in a way that looks good on social media.

It was ice packs.
It was heat.
It was sitting still because standing hurt more.

And honestly? That was enough.

Today wasn’t about pushing through.
It was about staying put — and letting my body do the work it’s already doing.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

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The Year I Needed

🌼 Date: Thursday, January 01, 2026

⚡ Energy: Reflective, grateful, quietly powerful

💓 Status: Still standing. Still here. Still learning.

💪 Outlook: Entering 2026 clearer, braver, and done playing small

🥢 New Year’s Day, the Way We Do It

For as long as I can remember — and I mean single digits old — our family has had one non-negotiable New Year’s Day tradition: we go out to eat Chinese food.

It started as family, back when the only places open on January 1st were Chinese restaurants. Over the years, it evolved into family plus whoever was lucky enough to snag an invite. Some years it’s small. Some years it’s chaos. Last year we had close to 30 people show up. This year? Just 9.

This year’s table was smaller, quieter, and honestly… perfect.

Casey wore one of his favorite shirts —
“Her fight is my fight. I wear pink for my wife.”

We ate. We laughed. We sat together in the aftershocks of a year that changed everything.

✨ The Year I Needed

I didn’t get the year I wanted.
I got the year that cracked me open.

The kind of year you don’t post highlight

reels about.
The kind where the goal isn’t “thriving” — it’s making it to the end of the day without falling apart in front of the wrong people.

This year taught me how heavy life can get.
How plans can dissolve even when you do everything right.
How promises can stretch thin.
How people change.
How sometimes effort isn’t enough — and that truth hurts like hell.

There were long stretches where I felt behind.
Like everyone else was moving forward while I was just trying to stay upright.
Some days I was exhausted from being strong.
From explaining myself.
From pretending I was okay when I absolutely was not.

There were nights I questioned my worth.
Wondered if I was failing at life, at work, at healing — at everything.
Cancer will do that to you.
So will being told “just wait” long enough that waiting becomes a cage.

But somewhere in the middle of all that mess, something shifted.

Quietly.
Without permission.

I learned how to show up for myself — even when no one else did.
How to stop chasing things that weren’t choosing me back.
How to rest without guilt.
How to set boundaries without writing a dissertation to justify my pain.

I learned that growth doesn’t always look like progress.
Sometimes it looks like loss.
Losing people.
Losing comfort.
Losing the version of yourself who kept shrinking to fit where you no longer belonged.

But I didn’t lose myself.

I found her.

Stronger.
Clearer.
Less willing to settle.
More aware of my own power.

So no — 2025 wasn’t gentle.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t fair.

But it changed me in ways that matter.

And if you’re ending this year tired, disoriented, or quietly proud just for still being here — hear this:
You didn’t fall behind.

You survived the year that shaped you.

And the woman walking into 2026?
She’s wiser.
She’s braver.
And she’s finally aware of just how big she really is.

Bring it on, 2026.

I didn’t ring out 2025 with champagne.
I rang it out with clarity.

And if 2026 wants to test me —
it should probably stretch first.

💗 Tina —

One Badass Day at a Time

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59 Hours Awake, 8 Hours of Bliss (and a Hard Stop at 10:30)

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 31, 2025

⚡ Energy: Quiet, tender, deeply tired

💓 Status: Shot one complete, record sleep achieved

🥱 Outlook: Rest counts as progress

Day one of the Granix shots.

For reasons known only to my body and whatever gremlin runs the side-effect department, the first of the five shots always makes me bleed like a stuck pig — while the other four behave themselves. Weird, but consistent. At this point, I just nod and roll with it.

And now… brace yourselves.

Because I have AMAZING NEWS.

Since I didn’t have to take steroids last night, I slept.
Like, really slept.

Eight. Whole. Hours.
Blissfully peaceful.
Uninterrupted — except for my bladder, which remains deeply committed to chaos.

That officially ends the wakey-wakey marathon at 59 hours.
A new personal record.

Casey said I should’ve tried to make it an even 60.
Hard pass. I am not interested in defending this title next round.

Today is New Year’s Eve, and in keeping with the theme of low expectations and soft living, I donned my silver satin pajamas to ring it in.

This second round of chemo has hit differently.
I’m more tired.
More worn down.
Zero energy.
Very little strength.

We tried to make it to midnight.
We really did.

But I think we officially said goodbye to 2025 around 10:30 PM, tucked into bed, lights out, surrender accepted.

And honestly?
That feels right.

Not every day needs fireworks.
Some days just need rest.
And tonight, rest is exactly how I’m closing the year.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

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Chemo Brain, Clean Laundry, and Registered Bags

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 30, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired but weirdly productive

💞 Status: Steroids ending, insomnia ongoing

🧐 Outlook: Organized chaos with a side of science

This morning was my last dose of steroids. No steroids tonight, which means tomorrow morning I officially start the shots. (Insert dramatic music here.)

Amazingly, I managed two one-hour cat naps overnight while working on the computer. No real sleep — but in the land of steroid-induced insomnia, that counts as a win. And apparently, sleepless Tina is also highly productive Tina.

I have washed everything.
If it fit in the washing machine — or could be coerced into fitting — it has been washed.
I love the smell of clean. LOVE it.

Which brings us to… smells.

Ever since starting chemo, my nose has turned into a bloodhound with opinions.

Casey came home with Taco Bell. He had approximately half an ounce of lettuce on his taco, and the smell of that lettuce nearly made me lose my lunch. LETTUCE. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t turning. It was just… lettuce.

Then came the real betrayal.

Peanut butter.

One of my favorites. A staple. A friend.

Casey made toast — one piece with butter, one with peanut butter — sat next to me, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with the urge to heave. I politely asked him if he could please eat the peanut butter toast first, as quickly as possible, so I didn’t have to smell it anymore.

This is my at-home chemo command center, and it exists for one simple reason: I am done trying to read microscopic print while mid-nausea cycle. Everything is labeled in a way that works for me, because my brain and my stomach are no longer taking shifts at the same time.

In this picture you’ll see:

• My labeled medication bottles, because chemo brain + tiny font is a hard no
• My thermometer and sterile sleeves, since I have to take my temperature daily — and before calling the doctor for anything
• Alcohol wipes for shot prep
• My puppy Band-Aids (gift exchange win 🐶 Thanks Mel and kids!)
• ALL the meds that help me go… and then help me not go too much
• Gas pills, because apparently even drinking water causes bloating now
• Nausea meds (pick one, I now have four to choose from), paired with Pepcid, which I learned is a histamine blocker

And then… still living on my counter since surgery in October, because I genuinely do not know what I’m supposed to do with them, are the registration cards for my bags.

Let me say that again.

Registration. Cards. For. My. Bags.

Am I required to carry these on me?
Who exactly is going to ask to see them?
If someone does, do I:

• show them the cards?
• flash them my bags?
• both?

Is this like a service animal situation, where legally you’re not supposed to ask someone if their animal is registered?

And if that’s the case…
does that mean my bags are registered service or emotional support bags?

Because if so, I feel like they should be helping me carry groceries or at least fetch snacks.

Still no real sleep.
Still learning new things every day.
Still moving forward.

💗 Tina –

One Badass Day at a Time

---

Some Days Are Just Heavy

🌼 Date: Monday, December 29, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, stitched, stubbornly upright

❤️‍🩹 Status: Stitched, infused, sleepless

💖 Outlook: Progress… just louder than expected

So, this morning was a plastics appointment and let me be clear: I walked in with zero expectations of getting a fill. At this point, I’m making peace with my baby Capri Sun-sized boobies.

Granted… they’re uneven. Very uneven.

You know how Capri Suns work, right? One pouch takes the straw like a champ, first try. The other one? You have to ja that straw in with the force of a prize fighter trying to win a title belt, and then suddenly juice explodes everywhere like you nicked a main artery. So you take a quick swig just to keep it from spraying the headliner of your minivan.

No two pouches were ever the same.

Yet somehow… my kids never noticed. Or complained.

Huh.

Never thought about that until just now.

Squirrel moment.

Anyway – I’m really enjoying not wearing a bra. Like, a lot.

Which made me wonder… after the implants go in, will I have to wear one again? And if so, will it be:

• for fun

• for looks

• for function

Please Jesus, not the confinement straight-jacket binder from hell again.

After taking two anxiety pills (because personal growth ✨), off to the plastics doctor we went.

And y’all… this appointment was like no other.

Today, the doctor decided the skin around that stubborn little hole was pink, healthy, and supple – and announced she was going to put a couple of stitches in it.

I’m sorry… what now?

We are ten weeks post-op, and today we’re deciding, “Hey, maybe we should surgically close this hole”?

Anyone remember my earlier comment about why I don’t get paid the big bucks, but they do?

Too late for a retraction?

I mean… okay. Sure. Let’s do it.

Per the oncologist’s terrorist-negotiated terms, the doctor made sure to seal that puppy up on all sides before sending me off to chemotherapy.

Which, of course, is at a completely different location, a solid 45 minutes away, depending on traffic. Because why wouldn’t it be.

We checked in, my butt barely touched the waiting room chair, and the nurse was already calling my name. Today’s IV? First try. No urning. No irritation. It flushed beautifully – a true Christmas miracle.

Since we had to slow one of the meds last time, my nurse came prepared: warming pack, fresh warm blanket, and a slowed start on that particular drip.

And miracle of miracles…

It worked.

No slowdown required. We are absolutely keeping that little trick in our pocket for rounds three and four.

The whole appointment was quicker this time – only three and a half hours.

And no one walked in on me in the bathroom. Look at me mastering the double lock like a seasoned professional. I also mastered the IV pole. No spills. No broken ankles. Olympic-level maneuvering.

Naturally, I came fully suited up for battle:

• my FU@K CANCER shirt

• a breast cancer head wrap I modified (because I can’t leave anything alone)
• and the sweetest breast cancer necklace fro my friend Debbie, given to me Saturday at the head-shaving party 💗

The ride home was better than round one – no nausea, just that deep, bone-level exhaustion. Still… no sleep.

I am currently in the middle of my wakey wakey, steroid-induced marathon, which in the past has kept me awake for 40 hours at a time. I’ve been up since 11:00 AM Sunday, for those of you keeping score.

I still have steroids to take tonight and again tomorrow morning, so I’m not holding out much hope for sleep. But hey – we’ll see.

At this point, sleep is optional, stitches are new, chemo is done, and I’m still standing. I may be tired – but cancer should be more tired that I am.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

---

Powered by Jet Fuel and Spite

🌼 Date: Sunday, December 28, 2025

⚡ Energy: Steroid-powered, mildly feral, unstoppable

❤️‍🩹 Status: Productive, bald, wig-curious, still breathing

💖 Outlook: Getting shit done now, fully expecting to crash later

Today was Day 1 of steroids, which means my internal operating system rebooted without asking me and said, “We’re doing EVERYTHING. Right now.”

Also worth noting: I hadn’t even been out of bed for an hour this morning (yes, I had already roided up) when Casey looked at me and said, “You haven’t stopped talking since you got up… like, have you been lying in bed all night just thinking of all this stuff?”

Yup.
Exactly that.

Apparently, my brain spent the night running a full TED Talk rehearsal without my consent. So, buckle up, baby — you’ve got three days of this carnival ride to look forward to. And this is only Round 2. We’ve still got Round 3… then Round 4 ahead of us.

Yay us!!! 🎢😅

Did I do anything on the computer?
Absolutely not.
Could I sit down?
Also no.

But if you’ve got any home improvement projects, send them my way for the next two days because apparently, I am now powered by jet fuel and spite.

Here’s what did get done:

All the laundry.
Sheets and blankets washed and back on the bed — which felt especially important because up until yesterday, every time I pulled up the covers, I got a mouth full of my own hair floating off the blankets like some kind of chemo snow globe. Since the head shaving, I am happy to report that I am no longer shedding long enough strands to become airborne. Clean bedding felt ceremonial.

Then I hung the four framed pictures I had printed for Casey for Christmas.
There was math.
There was a tape measure.
There was a level.
There was a ladder.

It was a whole thing.

While Casey was trying to take a cat nap in his recliner, I decided that was the perfect time to purge my phone contacts.
Because obviously.

Three hours later, I had gone down a full memory-lane rabbit hole, deleting people, places, and businesses I have clearly outgrown. (No offense to Chuck E. Cheese, but I probably won’t be booking birthday parties there anymore. My youngest is 20.)

Once I was already emotionally invested, I figured I’d add profile pictures too. Because if you’re going to spiral, you might as well be thorough.

Then… the Amazon delivery arrived.

The blonde wig showed up.

Full disclosure: she’s more of an ombré — light brown on top, platinum blonde on the bottom — with a little curl. And I kind of love her. Even Casey said, “I thought I would hate it more.”
Progress is progress!

She needs a bang trim before her official debut, because I don’t know who is out here wearing bangs down past their nose, but it won’t be me. I’ll try to fix that tomorrow in between my plastics appointment and Round 2 of chemo.

Oh — and now that Nicholas has seen how all-in everyone went with the head shaving, he wants his shaved shorter than we did the other day. So add “family barber” back onto the list. Pics will be coming tomorrow night.

Also… the wigs need names.
You can’t just have unnamed personalities living in your house.

The red one is spicy. Latina energy.
Casey suggested Lola (or Lolita), which feels perfect because in high school dance team we competed to a song with the line: “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl…” you all know the one, and you sang that line, didn’t you?

Nicholas thinks the blonde should be Stacey, which immediately triggered “Stacey’s mom has got it going on” in my head, so now I’m undecided.

We’ll settle this soon. Suggestions welcome.

Before I wrap this up, I want to say this clearly and lovingly:

👉 If you’ve been reading along and haven’t subscribed to the blog yet — please do.
I currently have seven subscribers (hi family, hi inner circle 💕), but with nearly 300 visitors, I know there are more of you out there. Subscribing just means you’ll get the posts delivered to you — no spam, no nonsense, just real life, one day at a time.

Okay.
Steroids are wearing off.
The crash is coming.
Tomorrow is chemo.

Still here.
Still standing.
Still doing the damn thing.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Not Walking This Alone

🌼 Date: Saturday, December 27, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋 (officially depleted—in the best way)

💝 Status: Surrounded, supported, and freshly clipped

🥰 Outlook: Full heart, steady hope, ready for Monday

Today was a very successful day—the kind that leaves you completely spent and deeply grateful.

✔ Labs done
✔ Head shaving + potluck accomplished
✔ Three haircuts and a beard shave given (apparently, I’ve added “pop-up barber” to my résumé)😉

Seventeen people showed up. Seventeen.
Each one offering support in their own way—food, hugs, laughter, presence. It was a beautiful outpouring of love, and it filled the room (and my heart) right up.

One moment in particular landed hard and soft at the same time. The wife of one of my last trainees came by—her husband just had back surgery four days ago, so he gets a full pass—and she brought me the most beautiful breast cancer ribbon necklace. The card read:

“Once you choose hope, anything is possible.
Let your faith be bigger than your fear.”

I will be wearing that necklace to chemo on Monday like a shield.
I’m already planning which pink breast cancer t-shirt will best match the vibe—because if I’m going in, I’m going in armored.

She also brought the best-smelling hand lotion, which made me laugh because apparently the universe knows that constant handwashing has turned my hands into something resembling the Sahara Desert… which is also currently residing in my mouth. The timing? Impeccable.

I know some of the most amazing people. Truly.

There isn’t a lot to say today that could compete with the 14 photos I have from this afternoon. They tell the story better than words ever could—love, laughter, courage, community.

Photos from today — love showed up in every form. 💗

Today reminded me that I am not walking this alone.
Not even close.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Wig First

🌼 Date: Friday, December 26, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋 (used wisely, with laughter breaks)

💞Status: Wigged, prepared, medically efficient

😏Outlook: Spicy, realistic, and seeing the damn light

Today we made it to the wig shop—and let me tell you, it was an adventure.

Aunt Dee and Marnie came with us, which immediately guaranteed that dignity would not be present and laughter absolutely would. There were multiple belly-laugh moments. The kind where you have to stop, breathe, and wipe tears from your eyes because someone just said or did something that tipped the whole room over.

But fate—and apparently my personality—had other plans.

I tried on several different styles and colors, and I’m still blown away by the fact that all of these wigs are free, donated by private parties so women like me can have choices. Real choices. Not “this is what’s left,” but actual options.

And it gets better:

• Free wig
• Free shampoo to wash it
• Free detangling spray
• Free comb

All of it. And if I get tired of the red? I can exchange it anytime. No guilt. No hassle.

I have chemo on Monday, so I may not make it to Taco Tuesday or even next Friday’s dinner, depending on how hard round two hits. Round one kicked my butt, and based on watching my son Bryan go through this, each round tends to be a little worse than the last.

That’s okay.
I know what to expect now.

And after Monday?
I’ll be halfway through chemo. Only two treatments left after that. I can see the light, and I’m walking toward it—wig first.

When we got home, we prepped everything for tomorrow. I even got the taco bake ready so all I have to do is dump it in the pan and throw it in the oven before people arrive. Efficiency matters when you’re spending your energy like it’s a limited currency.

Tomorrow morning I head in for lab work so the pharmacist can review everything and make any needed adjustments to my chemo cocktail before Monday. I appreciate not sitting around waiting. I like a plan. I like momentum.

I also put in refill requests today for:

• Steroids (starting Sunday)
• Granix shots (days 3–7 again, wheeee)

And when I pick those up, I’ll also grab two new prescriptions—one for nausea and one for sleep—but I won’t start those until after chemo Monday. Because we follow instructions around here. Mostly.

Today was full.
It was funny.
It was grounding.
And it reminded me that even in the middle of the hard stuff, there is room for laughter, good food, good people, and a red wig that refuses to be ignored.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Chemo Hooch and Other Christmas Wins

🌼 Date: Thursday, December 25, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋🔋 (steady, managed, and fueled by apple spice)

💖 Status: Medicated, hydrated, hosting like a boss

😁 Outlook: Grateful, amused, and ready to recycle all the boxes

Today brought a small but mighty breakthrough in the nausea department—and honestly, I feel like this deserves its own Nobel Prize category.

I discovered a shortcut for my nausea drink. Chemo Hooch — the quick version of my chemo moonshine — saved the day. (recipe here)
You know the one. My chemo moonshine.

Turns out, when you don’t have two hours to brew the OG batch, you can whip up a perfectly acceptable “sister drink.” If one is moonshine, then naturally this one is… chemo hooch.

Here’s the recipe (no judgment, no measurements, just vibes):

• Hot water
• One packet of spiced apple cider mix
• A sprinkle of cinnamon
• A sprinkle of ground ginger
• Measure everything with your heart
• Stir well
• Sip slowly and feel smug about your ingenuity

This little potion, combined with:

• Pepcid morning and bedtime
• My nausea meds three times a day
• Plus the breakthrough med as needed

…made today a pretty damn good day.

Good enough that I was able to cook Christmas dinner and serve both dinner and dessert. I did not do this alone—let the record show I had a wonderful sous chef and an absolutely elite cleanup crew. Teamwork makes the chemo dream work.

Everyone had a nice Christmas.
And anyone who didn’t get exactly what they asked Santa for ended up with gift cards and has probably already made an Amazon purchase. Which makes me wonder… is Amazon’s busiest day actually after Christmas? I’m putting my money on yes.

Speaking of Amazon, my next task is breaking down approximately 47 boxes and getting them into recycling before garbage day. It’s the circle of life, but with cardboard.

The house is in good shape. Casey mopped the floors last night (he really is my Christmas miracle), and I vacuumed and cleaned the carpets. We are officially ready for Saturday’s head shaving party, which has now evolved into a potluck—because of course it has. Anyone who wants to hang out is welcome to bring a dish and stay awhile.

Santa was also very on-theme this year. He brought me:

• New cordless clippers
• A couple of new capes
• New combs
• A shiny new squirt bottle
• A new bottle of sanitizer for the tools

So yes… we are ready. Fully equipped. Slightly unhinged. Professionally prepared.

Today was full. It was warm. It was managed.
And it reminded me that sometimes the win isn’t doing everything perfectly—it’s finding the shortcuts, accepting the help, and still showing up.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Absolutely Counts

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 24, 2025

⚡ Energy: 🔋🔋🔋 (surprisingly decent)

💔 Status: Balding with dignity, functioning, mildly festive

🌞 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic, armed with clippers and sass

Today? Today was a pretty damn good day.

First things first: nausea barely showed up. 🎉
Like… barely RSVP’d. I’ll take that win and put it straight in my pocket.

Because I was feeling decent, I broke out the clippers and tightened up with a buzz cut. Showered afterward, and every time I touched my head my hands were covered in hair. Not falling out in dramatic clumps—just quietly letting go like, “Okay, I’m done here.” I even cleaned the drain with a tissue because I refuse to let chemo take my plumbing too.

Enter my sweet kid moment of the day:
Nicholas felt bad watching me deal with it, so he asked me to shave his head too. 🥹
We both went with the #3. I kept the top of mine a little longer and did the sides and back tighter. He went full #3 all the way around. Matching heads, matching courage. Not gonna lie—my heart cracked open a little.

I also checked in with the wig shop today, and friends… this is a resource everyone on this road should ask about.
In my area, there are a couple of places I can go, and I can actually get a FREE wig. Free. Zero dollars. Insurance-backed magic. The woman I spoke with was an absolute gem and said, “Everyone deserves at least one wig and a few hats in their arsenal.”
They’ve got wigs, hats, scarves—some free, some for sale—and I’m heading there on Friday.

Originally, I thought I’d go full eau natural.
But then I thought… wait a minute…
This might be my only chance to be blonde.
Casey is not a fan of blonde hair, which obviously means this is exactly the right moment to try it. I’ve been every color in the book except blonde. So… why not now? Chemo-era rebellion feels appropriate.

I may also have a couple of pink wigs sitting in my Amazon cart, but I’m holding off until after Friday. One impulsive hair decision at a time, Tina.

On the productivity front (who even is she?):
✔ Baking is DONE
✔ All presents are wrapped
✔ House is clean
✔ Ready for company

I am deeply thankful that Christmas landed on week 3 of my chemo cycle. That’s my “sweet spot.”
Here’s the rhythm, for those curious:

• Week 1: Steroids → Tina on espresso
• Then: Five days of self-injections (thrilling, truly)
• Week 2: Things get rough
• Week 3: I start to feel human again

That’s the pattern until mid-to-late February. On Monday, I start Round 2, and we ride the merry-go-round again.

Because I was feeling good, we kept one of our longest-running family traditions: going out to dinner on Christmas Eve.
This tradition exists because I used to procrastinate all my baking until Christmas Eve and then be way too tired to cook dinner. Instead of fixing my habits, we made it a tradition. Growth is overrated.
We’ve been doing this for at least 20 years.

Tomorrow, everyone comes here for Christmas Day. I do the dinner. I do the dessert. I am cautiously optimistic and aggressively hydrated. Wish me luck.

Tonight, I’m grateful.
Grateful for a calm stomach.
Grateful for a fresh buzz cut.
Grateful for a kid who said, “Me too, Mom.”
Grateful for resources, traditions, and a body that—on some days—still shows up ready to play along.

And today?
Absolutely counts. 💪🎄

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Today Was a Good Day

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 23, 2025

⚡ Energy: Better than expected

💔 Status: Alive (medicated, baking)

🌞 Outlook: Cautiously optimistic, clippers nearby

Today was a good day.

And I don’t say that lightly.

I think — I hope — we finally found the right combination of meds to shut the nausea down. Pepcid paired with my nausea medication seems to be the magic ticket, and for the first time in a while, I wasn’t bargaining with my stomach all day.

Even better, my doctor confirmed what I already suspected: I should not be vomiting and feeling this nauseous. So we’re adjusting meds again — a different anti-nausea prescription and something to help me sleep. If this works, maybe the 40-hour awake cycles can officially retire. I would love to sleep like a normal person again. What a concept.

And the best part?
This isn’t my new normal.

Today felt… productive.
Normal-adjacent.

I baked.
Wrapped more gifts as they arrived.
Did a little sewing.
Worked on a creative Christmas project.

Not survival tasks.
Life tasks.

So yes — a genuinely good day.

And then there’s the other part.

The part where if I even look at my hair wrong, it comes out.

Scratch my head? Hair.
Run my fingers through it? Hair.
Exist near it? Hair.

It’s reached the point where touching it feels like a betrayal — like my hands are accomplices in something I didn’t agree to. At this rate, I’m not sure how much hair will even be left by Saturday.

So tonight, there’s a strong chance Casey and I fire up the clippers for a pre–head shaving trim. Not the full send. Just… easing into it. Shortening things up so every shower doesn’t feel like a crime scene.

This is the strange balance of right now:
Relief and loss.
Hope and grief.
Medication wins and hair everywhere.

Both things are true.
Both get space.

But today still counts as a win.

I felt better.
I lived a little.
And I’m meeting what’s coming on my own terms — clippers included.

We keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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I Got Dressed

🌼 Date: Monday, December 22, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low, but showing up

💔 Status: Alive (bare nails, real clothes)

🌞 Outlook: Holding steady, with receipts

Today, I got dressed.

Not “clean pajamas” dressed.
Not “leggings and a hoodie, let’s survive” dressed.

I put on real clothes.
I did my makeup.
I looked in the mirror and recognized myself — even if just a little.

That hasn’t happened much since all of this started.

We went to the potluck and gift exchange for support staff.

I didn’t go for the food or the gifts. I went because sometimes showing up is its own form of defiance. Because I didn’t want cancer — or disappointment — to shrink my world any more than it already has.

Casey came with me, which immediately made everything better. Chauffeur. Buffer. Emotional support human. Knowing I wasn’t walking into that room alone mattered more than I expected.

Was it awkward?
A little.

Was it survivable?
Absolutely.

I smiled. I made small talk. I didn’t explain myself. I didn’t defend anything. I didn’t “have a face” (which honestly deserves an award). I stayed exactly as long as I wanted to — and then I left.

And here’s the part I don’t want to gloss over:

I showed up as myself.
Dressed. Present. Still standing.

That counts.

After that, I had to do something that felt surprisingly heavy: I went and had my acrylic nails taken off.

And no — this wasn’t vanity, and it wasn’t optional.

According to the nurses during chemo, the TC cocktail I’m on can cause fingernails to loosen and fall off. The added weight of acrylics can make that happen sooner. Over the last few days, the tips of my fingers have started to hurt — not sore, but deep, like the nail beds themselves are bruised or smashed with a hammer. Subtle. Constant. Impossible to ignore.

So today meant a visit to my favorite, long-time nail lady — the one I’ve been seeing for nearly 20 years, back when our youngest son was still in a car seat. Sitting there felt awful in a way I didn’t expect. Like I was sending her to the unemployment line. Like we were both pretending this was temporary when we knew it wasn’t.

Of all the silly things to be losing right now, this one feels like the final straw.

Not my boobs.
Not even my hair — hair grows back.

But my nails?
They’ve been me since high school. Every two weeks like clockwork. Nail art. Bling. Sparkle. Tiny armor. A small, consistent way of saying, “I’m still here.”

Maybe this is the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Maybe it’s the lack of hormones.
Maybe it’s all of it at once.

When I got home, I changed into my black satin pajamas, and mourning felt appropriate — for more reasons than one.

Because my hair is really starting to come out now. In the shower today, it covered my hands. Every time I touched my head, more came away. Styling it meant rinsing handfuls of hair from my fingers, over and over again. I’m hoping I can make it to Saturday — to the head shaving party — but with how fast it’s going, I’m not sure I get to decide that.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Today took a toll.

So tonight, I’m letting myself rest.
I’m hoping for sleep.
And I’m crossing my fingers this isn’t the start of another 40-hour awake cycle — because I’m due for one soon, and honestly, I could use a break.

No big lesson today.
Just the truth.

I got dressed.
I showed up.
I came home with my dignity intact.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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In Sickness and In Health (Turns Out It Wasn’t Theoretical)

🌼 Date: Sunday, December 21, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low but sentimental

💔 Status: Alive (and still married)

🌞 Outlook: Grateful with a side of awe

Today is a big one.

Casey and I have been married for 34 years.
Thirty. Four.

We met in high school — I graduated in 1989, he graduated in 1990 — and somehow, instead of growing apart, we just… kept choosing each other. That means we’ve spent well over half our lives side by side. Honestly, it’s closer to two-thirds, which feels both wild and grounding at the same time.

People love a good love story, but they don’t always love to talk about what it actually takes to keep one.

Ours has survived:

• growing up together
• becoming adults together
• the loss of a child (which breaks many marriages beyond repair)
• and now, cancer

And yet — here we are.

Just quiet, steady love in motion.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Fur Babies, and My Mary

🌼 Date: Saturday, December 20, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low → improving

💔 Status: Alive

🙂 Outlook: Holding steady (with a side of gratitude)

Today feels different — in a good way.

The nausea finally backed off enough that I could eat and keep food down. I actually managed about three times the calories I got yesterday, which feels like a victory worth celebrating quietly. My dehydration headache is gone too, so we’re calling that a solid win/win.

Of course, the universe likes balance.

At 2:30 this morning, after a whole five hours of sleep (luxury!), I discovered that our senior dog Momo — who is 12, blind, diabetic, and gets insulin shots twice a day — had peed on the Christmas tree skirt… and a few of the presents underneath it.

Not exactly what I had planned while still feeling pretty nauseous.

So, there I was, pulling gifts out from under the tree, washing the tree skirt, mopping the floor, and then putting everything back together. The gifts that got hit? I got the special bonus experience of unwrapping them early… only to rewrap them again. Definitely not on my bingo card for the morning.

Somewhere between the mop bucket and the wrapping paper, I realized something else — I’ve never formally introduced you to our fur babies, and they’re very much part of this whole journey.

So today held nausea relief, messy surprises, fur-covered blankets, wrapping paper round two, and a visual reminder that this whole thing — the blog, the words, the art — is becoming real.

Not perfect.
Not easy.
But real.

And for today, that’s enough.

We keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Feelingless Boobs (and Other Things No One Prepares You For)

🌼 Date: Friday, December 19, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low

💔 Status: Alive – I think

😒 Outlook: Holding steady, but we keep going

Some days, the phrase “we keep going” sounds motivational.
Other days, it’s just a fact.

Today was a fact kind of day.

The numbness nobody really explains

I went down a Google rabbit hole trying to understand why everything from my collarbone to just under where my breasts should be is numb. Not “a little tingly.” Not “asleep.” Just… gone.

Turns out, during a double mastectomy, a whole lot of sensory nerves get cut. They run right through the tissue that gets removed, so there’s no way around it. The nerves that supply sensation to the breast skin, nipple, areola, chest wall, and even into the armpit area are often severed or damaged.

That includes nerves coming off the ribs (intercostal nerves), nerves in the armpit where lymph nodes live, and nerves that run along the pectoral muscle — the exact areas my physical therapist worked on this week.

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized I was having one of those days in full-on leopard pajama mode. No armor. No pretending. Just soft clothes, a tired body, and the quiet decision to keep showing up anyway.

If you want the medical receipts, I’m putting all of that information over on The Science of the Shit Show because it helps me to understand why my body feels the way it does — even when I don’t like the answer.

Physical therapy:

progress I didn’t expect

Here’s the part that surprised me.

I’ll be the first to admit I haven’t done every stretch every day. And yet… my range of motion improved — in some movements, almost doubled. That felt like a small miracle.

My physical therapist worked deeply in my armpits (where lymph nodes were removed), and in that strange no-man’s-land where the armpit turns into the chest muscle. She also worked lower — right over the expanders themselves.

It wasn’t painful, but it was… weird. Pressure without sensation. Like my brain knew something was happening, but my body couldn’t fully feel it.

Feelingless boobs and other things no one prepares you for

Will I ever get feeling back?

The honest answer: maybe a little, maybe not much.

Nerves can regenerate, but slowly. Sometimes sensation returns partially. Sometimes it doesn’t. I already know that when nipple reconstruction happens, there will be no sensation there. Permanently. High beams on forever.

But realizing that large parts of my chest — and my boobs — may never feel anything again? That’s a lot to wrap my head around.

What does it mean to live in a body where parts of you are permanently offline?

I don’t have a poetic answer yet. I’m still processing that one.

When “different” suddenly feels like “wrong”

Fast forward to the shower.

I noticed my right side now feels flat and hard at the top of the expander — just like the left. The left side had the larger tumor, so I was told it would look more recessed until final implants go in. Fine. I had adjusted to that.

But now the right side looks and feels different too.

Cue the spiral:

• Did physical therapy push fluid out?
• Did a seroma finally absorb?
• Did something rupture?
• Or is this just… another normal-but-unsettling phase?

Right now, I don’t know. I just know something changed, and when your body has already betrayed you once, change doesn’t feel neutral.

And then there’s the nausea

If I had to rank chemo symptoms, nausea wins. Every time.

Hair loss? Hair grows back.
Fingernails falling off? (Yes, that’s a thing with my chemo.) They grow back too.

But nausea? Nausea is relentless.

Yesterday afternoon, it won. I can’t keep anything down — even ginger ale wants no part of this. I have multiple nausea meds, and sometimes even mixing and matching them doesn’t touch it.

This is one of those symptoms you don’t power through. You don’t fix it. You just… ride it out.

And that helpless feeling? That’s not my favorite place to live.

Before cancer (BC), I’d just sleep when I felt sick. Now my sleep is so broken I can’t even escape that way.

It’s a solid –15/10, would not recommend.

So… we keep going

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I realized I was having one of those days in full-on leopard pajama mode. No armor. No pretending. Just soft clothes, a tired body, and the quiet decision to keep showing up anyway.

No big lesson today.
No silver lining neatly wrapped with a bow.

Just this:

My body is healing and hurting at the same time.
Progress and loss are happening side by side.
Things are changing — sometimes for the better, sometimes just… different.

And even when I don’t love it, even when it’s uncomfortable, scary, or exhausting —

we keep going.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Uterine Uprising

🌼 Date: Thursday, December 18, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low

💔 Status: Alive, betrayed by my uterus

🌞Outlook: Sarcastically optimistic

I was told chemo would shove me straight into menopause.
Apparently, my body did not get that memo.

Instead, it chose “’Tis the season of giving” and went full Harry & David gift basket on me.

Not a polite period.
Not a familiar one.
A full-blown, go-big-or-go-home, Day-family-motto-approved uterine uprising.

Today’s symptoms include:

• Nausea (explained retroactively)
• A headache that could qualify as a side hustle
• Cramps so intense I am genuinely questioning whether my uterus is trying to evict something

I am not having cramps.
I am having contractions.

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Sleep: The Remix No One Asked For

Let’s talk about sleep, or whatever this current situation is pretending to be.

Between the steroids and the Granix shots, I’ve officially named this phase “The 40-Hour Uppers.”

My new pattern:

• Stay awake for 40 hours straight
• Crash for 10 hours
• Followed by 2–5 hours a night for a couple days
• Rinse. Repeat.
• I’ve completed three full all-nighter cycles so far

This might’ve been cute in my 20s.
In my 50s? Hard pass.

And yet… I’m productive.
Dangerously productive.

Which is how One Badass Day at a Time was born.
Apparently, insomnia + steroids + cancer = website launch energy.

Somewhere in all of this chaos, my soul is being held together by my Christmas playlist — a 29-hour, 8-minute labor of love that Casey lovingly roasts me for every year. Music has always been how I survive — from sitting in the car until a song finishes, to playlists for every mood and moment — because it feeds my soul the way hormones once fed my body… only this time, it’s actually saving me.

Gratitude

(Because We’re Still Doing That)

Even though I feel like my guts are wearing themselves on the outside today:

So yes, my body is currently unhinged —
but my living room is immaculate.

I’ll take the win.
Status: Still Alive. Still standing. Still not accepting unsolicited uterine opinions.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Chemo nausea? She’s rude. She’s unpredictable. She does not RSVP.

🌼 Date: Wednesday, December 17, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low but functional

🤢 Status: Nauseous, mouth angry, still standing

✨ Outlook: One pretzel at a time

Nausea update:
This is not morning sickness.

Morning sickness at least has the decency to show up on a schedule.
Chemo nausea?
She’s rude. She’s unpredictable. She does not RSVP.

It hits at random, with zero warning, and foods I’ve loved my entire life are suddenly dead to me.

Case in point:
Last night I tried a lime popsicle.
Hydration, right?
Wrong.

One taste and my body said, “Oh hell nah.”
Which is tragic, because lime + Tajín is normally my love language.

What is working:

Gluten-free Pretzel Crisps.
Plain. Dry. Salty. Boring.
And right now? Absolute heroes.

Why pretzels help (aka science backing my snack choices):

• Bland & dry = less smell, less trigger
• Easy to digest simple carbs
• Salt helps replace electrolytes
• Something in your stomach is better than nothing

They don’t fix nausea — but they keep it from turning into a full-blown rebellion.

(And yes, I googled it. Receipts matter.)

When the pretzels aren’t cutting it, I’ve also been leaning hard on something I call Chemo Moonshine — a warm, spiced apple cider drink I found during one of my late-night nausea spirals. It’s gentle, soothing, and somehow convinces my stomach to stand down.

If nausea is coming for you too, I shared the recipe here ↓

👉 Chemo Moonshine Recipe:
The nausea drink that’s saving my sanity lives here → [Tina-Tested Survival Guide]

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Hair update + Important Announcement

With my chemo cocktail (DT — details live on the Receipts page), hair loss typically starts days 17–19 after the first infusion.

My first infusion was 12/09, which puts me right in the 12/26–12/28 window.

I’m already seeing:

• Breakage
• Shedding
• Texture changes

It now feels like what we affectionately call “baby monkey hair.”
Innocent. Soft. Betraying me quietly.

So, I am taking control.

🪒 Head Shaving Party
🌟 Saturday, December 27
⏰ 1:00 PM
📍 My house

If you’re coming, you already have my number — text me for the address.
(Creeper-free zone, always.)

It’s just hair.
It will grow back.
Eventually.

Until then, I’ll be rocking the chrome dome through at least mid-May…
Just in time to get the convertible out of storage. 😎
(Yes, I will absolutely be driving it topless.)

Cancer may keep throwing monkey wrenches —
but I’m still steering.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Some Days Are Brave. Some Days Are Blankets.

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 16, 2025

⚡Energy: Low battery, charger located (recliner + snacks)

❤️‍🩹 Status: Alive

🌤️ Outlook: Tender, grateful, mildly unamused by my own body

Fit Check:
Pink polka dot pajamas — because today called for comfort, not couture.
Chemo says “be gentle,” so I listened.
Also, if I’m going to feel like hot garbage, I might as well look adorable doing it.

Body Update (a.k.a. Things No One Warns You Feel This Fast):
The mouth sores have officially arrived.
It feels like swishing with a handful of broken glass — 0/10, do not recommend.
My bottom lip is also numb. Not tingling. Just… missing.
A very strange sensation, like my mouth and I are no longer on speaking terms.

I already take folic acid (thanks to a previous medication that caused similar mouth nonsense), and even though that med is paused during chemo, the folic acid stays — small mercies.
I’m also rinsing after every meal with warm water, sea salt, and baking soda to restore the pH balance in my mouth… because apparently my mouth is now a toxic environment. Cool.

On top of that:
Constant dry mouth.
No amount of water helps.
Despite owning approximately 14 different types of lip chap (my kids named the collection), my lips remain Sahara Desert dry.

Eating? Not super appealing when your mouth feels like it’s under attack.
I’m down 4 pounds in 4 days.
DO NOT recommend the chemo diet.
Also, intermittent toxic glitter shooting out of my ass like a flamethrower probably isn’t helping the weight situation. Just saying.

Gratitude Check (because balance):
✨ I’m DONE giving myself Granix shots for this round — huge win.
✨ I had the energy to shower.
✨ I put on my cute armor (pink polka dot jammies).
✨ And I even wrapped a few Christmas gifts.

Some days are brave.
Some days are blankets.
Today was pajamas, mouth pain, and survival — and that’s more than enough.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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I Cried at the Rain

🌼 Date: Monday, December 15, 2025

⚡Energy: Low → depleted, but still breathing

❤️‍🩹 Status: Alive

😒 Outlook: Emotionally unpredictable. Physically annoyed. Still showing up.

Today I Cried Because It Was Raining

I was laying back in my recliner, mid-chemo spiral, trying to decide whether everything I’d managed to eat was going to stay put…
or if I was about to spew fire and toxic glitter from my ass for the umpteenth time today.

And then I looked outside.

It was raining.

That’s it.
That’s the whole reason.

I cried because it was raining.

Not because it was beautiful.
Not because it was sad.
Not because it reminded me of anything profound.

Just… rain.

No hormones.
No dramatic backstory.
No deeper meaning.

Apparently, this is where we’re at.

Chemo brain is wild. Emotions show up uninvited, kick their shoes off, and make themselves at home. One minute you’re fine, the next minute you’re sobbing over weather.

I laughed after. Because what else can you do?

If this is part of the journey, then fine.
I’ll cry at the rain.
I’ll cry at commercials.
I’ll cry at absolutely nothing.

Also completed Day 5 of my Granix shots — immune system under renovation, please excuse the mess.

Still here.
Still standing.
Still alive.

One badass day at a time. 🌧️💗

📝Side note: I wrote more about the Granix shots and other support meds over on The Receipts for anyone who wants the nitty-gritty.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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When Life Hands You a Shit Sandwich

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Reporting Live from Chemo Station 19

🌼 Date: Tuesday, December 09, 2025

⚡ Energy: Wired, overwhelmed, and weirdly alert

💔 Status: Alive and officially infused

🌞 Outlook: Buckled in — let’s do this

Chemo Day: The Great Storm

This morning, we left the house with plenty of time for the 45-minute drive.

But Mother Nature said:
“Let’s make this fun.”

Flooding.
Storms.
Traffic stopped dead.
Power outages.
Every road looked like a scene from a dystopian drama.

GPS ETA: 8:12 am
Appointment time: 8:00 am
Me: Hyperventilating
Because I do not do late.
Bus drivers are NOT late.
Okay… fine…
Not usually double digits late.

I called the chemo clinic the second their phones turned on at 8:00.
A miracle happened:
A human answered.

I explained everything — the wound, the storm, the anxiety, all of it.
She said:
“Don’t worry. Be safe. Get here when you can.”

I hung up and burst into tears.
No hormones, remember?
Plus, three weeks of fear, pain, stress, and “what if my whole timeline gets screwed” finally broke me.

When I sink, he doesn’t just throw me a rope — he jumps in.

And Then… the Nurses Made Me Cry AGAIN

When I finally got to the infusion room, something unexpected happened.

Three of the nurses recognized me.
From Bryan’s treatments.
They cared for him during his three battles.

They told me they rarely, if ever, get updates on patients after treatment ends.
It meant the world to them to finally know.

He mattered. He still matters.

The Pregnancy Test Fiasco

Then the doctor ordered a pregnancy test.
LOL.
Girl.
No.
This oven has been turned off for FIFTEEN YEARS.

My IV basically said,
“I accept incoming fluids only, thank you.”
It refused to give up any blood.
Not one drop.

One of the nurses literally said,
“Come on, Bryan, that’s not funny. Help your mama out.”
We laughed through tears.

The doctor finally said if I accepted responsibility, she’d waive the test.
I was like,
“Doc, the only way I’m pregnant is if the Virgin Mary herself blessed me personally — I had Essure put in 15 YEARS ago.”

And with that…
CHEMO ROUND 1 WAS ON.

Chemo-day glow and all.

💗 Introducing: Sir Drips-A-Lot

(My new, tall, shiny, clingy chemo boyfriend)

At some point during chemo, after my fifth close encounter with death-by-IV-pole, I had a realization:

If this thing is going to follow me around, bump into my ankles, and get tangled with every other patient like we’re doing the world’s slowest tango…
he deserves a name.

We will spend HOURS together.
He holds all my fluids like a champ.
He doesn’t judge when I ugly cry.
He doesn’t flinch when I swear like I’m trying to win a rap battle.
And he NEVER tells me to calm down.

Honestly?
He might be the most dependable male I’ve ever met who isn’t my husband.

And because Casey and I raised four kids who basically came out of the womb knowing how to rap, the name practically chose itself.

Behold… Sir Drips-A-Lot.

Chemo Day 1: Meet My New Dance Partner

Chemo comes with a lot of unexpected side quests…
but no one warned me about the pole dancing.

Walking that IV pole around the infusion room is like trying to waltz with a drunk octopus. There are cords, wheels, bags, pumps, and more random sticky-outy bits than a toddler’s science project. And the number of obstacles between my chair and the “patient restroom”? Criminal.

Every time someone else was out for a walk with their pole, we’d both do that awkward
“Sorry—no you go—wait—shit—okay!” shuffle.

Like… is there a “Right of Way” manual for this thing? They hook you up and send you off into the battlefield with NO training, NO instructions, NO laminated cheat sheet.
(Maybe I should teach a class. My schedule is pretty open…
you know, except for the TEN freaking appointments I average each month.)

You’re pumping people full of fluids for four hours straight.
You know we’re going to have to trot on over to the “patient only restroom.”

Would it kill someone to add:

• a cord hook (hello, even $40 vacuums have that),
• a phone shelf,
• a cup holder,
• and maybe a damn rhinestone option?

Because if I’m dragging this pole around like a reluctant toddler on wheels, the LEAST they could do is make it pink and sparkly.

The Bathroom Debacle (AKA: The Day a Stranger Saw My Whole Ass)

My very first trip to the “patient only restroom” gifted me a valuable life lesson:

👉 You have to double-click the lock.

Why? Because I learned the school of hard knocks way — mid-pee, pants around my ankles, — when a RANDOM DUDE opened the door.

At this point in my life, modesty has packed her bags and left the country.

I’ve given birth.
I’ve had a lifetime of “scoot down a little more… a little more… a little more” PAP smears.
I’ve been squished, smashed, scanned, and unfolded like origami.
I attend weekly appointments where my front-opening gown is basically optional.

And now?
I’m built like a 12-year-old boy with medical tattoos — so WHY the gown?
Do preteen boys have to wear those?
Asking for a friend.

The Dress Code for Chemo Day #1

If I must sit in a chair for hours, I will do it in STYLE.

So, naturally, I showed up in:

• My “I AM THE STORM” shirt
• My pink leopard Princess Blanket of Emotional Support™ – Thank you Teri!
• And the grand finale…
  DEAR CANCER, YOU PICKED THE WRONG BITCH socks. Thank you, Jenn and Sarah!

I feel they set the tone, don’t you?

Now for the other fun facts they don’t tell you…

For the first 3 days after chemo, I’m supposed to use my own restroom — and flush twice each time to avoid leaving behind any toxic radioactive glitter.

If Casey has to clean up anything that escapes from either end (sorry, but if you’re here you signed up for raw and real), he must:

• glove up
• double-bag anything used
• and wash his hands like he just handled uranium

The man didn’t sign up to become a Toxic Body Fluid First Responder, but here he is, earning medals daily.

If I get chemo funk on my clothes (Jesus take the wheel NOT the pink satin leopard PJs), they must be washed solo, then washed again with my regular laundry.

Our water bill is going to send the city council into retirement.

Meanwhile, the IV pole is still my clingy new boyfriend.

He goes everywhere with me.
He holds all my fluids.
He beeps when he wants attention.
And he will absolutely yank my arm out of socket if I walk too fast.

But you know what?

He can stare all he wants, because between my socks, my shirt, my fluffy blanket, and my attitude…

I still look like the better half of this relationship.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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Bring It, Cancer. (Chemo Round 1, Pending Approval)

🌼 Date: Monday, December 8, 2025

⚡ Energy: Low and anxious

💔 Status: Alive, negotiating with my body

🌞 Outlook: Determined, but braced

Round 1: Bring It, Cancer

The Bad News: My Last 3 Weeks of Plastics

(And yes, we call it Plastics now — because Mean Girls walked so my boobs could run. And of course, on Wednesdays, we wear pink.)

So, here’s the deal:
My right-side incision has decided it does NOT want to behave.
The left side — the one with the bigger tumor — is healing like a damn honor student.
The right side — tiny tumor, barely a blip — is being a full-blown problem child.

Even my entire medical team is like, “Ummm… what?” So, here’s the deal:

Origami Boobs: The Saga

My plastic surgeon used the Bostwick technique, which basically takes my excess skin, deepithelializes it (Google it!), and folds it into a supportive sling — like a delicate little breast burrito — to hold the expander in place.

Why?
Because if you’ve ever laid on your back and felt your boobs migrate into your armpits, you’ll understand EXACTLY why we don’t want expanders or implants doing the same thing.

So now, thanks to all the intricate folding, we call them Origami Boobs.
It makes the whole thing feel a little more high art and a little less medical horror movie.

The Whole “Wound That Won’t Heal” Situation

Real, Raw, Unfiltered — Just Like I Promised

This is what a post-mastectomy anchor incision actually looks like.
No filters. No pretending it’s “not that bad.”
This is my right-side T-junction a few weeks ago, back when it was behaving. I’m sparing you the nasty, open wound, gaping hole picture of now because even I can’t really look at it. In this photo, the hole on the bottom was actually a little bigger than the 1 – 1/2 cm that it is now — the one holding up the show right now and keeping my skin from healing the way it should.
If you’re here because you’re facing this surgery too, I want you to know exactly what it looks like, so you never feel blindsided like I did.

Right now, at the T-junction of my scar, the top layer of skin has basically said,
“Nope. Not today. Not healing. Try again later.”

Which means:
No fills. For three straight weeks.
I’m still sitting at 150cc — the official size of a Capri Sun pouch — and it’s not moving anytime soon.

Why?
Because any added pressure on that wound risks splitting the delicate origami flap underneath… which would mean another surgery.
And since chemo wrecks your immune system faster than a toddler with a Sharpie, healing will already be slow.

So, no fills until this diva wound decides to get its act together.

The Photo Shoot Nobody Wants

At yesterday’s plastics appointment, the nurse had to take a photo of my boob with a ruler next to it — literally measuring the hole — and send it to my oncologist with a “Heyyyyy, sooo… is chemo still happening tomorrow?” note.

Crunch time.

Chemo was supposed to be this morning.
Plastics was last night at 4:30pm.
We had planned all the appointments for the next 3 months carefully around my expected blood count cycles.
My whole damn treatment timeline depended on that wound getting a green light.

And here I was with a gaping T-junction hole and zero fills allowed.

Cue the Anxiety Parade

Normally, I take an anxiety pill before Plastics, mostly because looking at my own disfigured body is still incredibly hard.
(At my first appointment I sobbed like a newborn the minute the nurse removed all the bandaging — big ugly cry.)

I refused to look at myself for almost three weeks.

And Then… the Oncologist Called

We were driving home in that heavy emotional fog when my phone rang through the car speakers.
It was my oncologist — the angel of decision-making, the queen of “are we still doing chemo or not?”

She’d reviewed the photo.
The wound looked like a bit over 1 cm.
Her worry? Infection.

My worry? EVERYTHING.

So, we negotiated.
Terrorist vs. hostage-level negotiations.

I agreed to:
✔ seal the magic bandage (silver, foamy, bougie, very fancy) on all four sides
✔ keep a photo log (sorry Casey, that’s now your new part-time job)
✔ call at the first sign of redness, swelling, or fever
✔ not cheat, push, or overdo it

And in return…
CHEMO WAS STILL ON.

💗 Tina –
One Badass Day at a Time

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